


To the Ends of the Earth

by Kirscheberry



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arguing, Conversations, Drabble Collection, Dreams, F/F, Fluff, Headcanon, Injury, M/M, Nation Lore, Nationverse, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22629496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirscheberry/pseuds/Kirscheberry
Summary: A collection of Hetalia drabbles that were written as Tumblr requests or prompts.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia), Belgium/Hungary (Hetalia), Canada/Netherlands (Hetalia), Denmark/Norway (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), England/Portugal (Hetalia), Finland/Sweden (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Lithuania/Poland (Hetalia), North Italy/Prussia (Hetalia), Prussia/Romania (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107





	1. my old friend (england, france)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France pays his most beloved enemy a visit, following his bitter defeat.
> 
> Prompt was "'How is this my fault?' with France and England about America's revolution?"

"Have you come to gloat?"

Arthur sat motionlessly by the windowsill, but the curtains were not drawn. The clacking of his visitor's boots on the wooden floor caused a sudden surge of grief to well up in his chest, and he forced it down. He would not cry, not anymore. Francis had no right to see him hurt, to see him vulnerable. Not when he had played such a role in his darling child's temper-tantrum-turned-revolution.

"No," said Francis, his voice revealing no emotion at all. "I suppose the loss of young Alfred has hurt you enough."

Arthur didn't turn to look at him. He knew his rival would be extravagantly dressed, his hands shielded by pure white gloves and his chest adorned with medals he hadn't earned. Those boots would be decorated too, no doubt a gift from his king. Worst of all, his hair would be tied back with a blue ribbon, one that was speckled with white stars as a show of solidarity with that traitor across the ocean.

The traitor who Arthur had known since the boy could hardly stand on two legs properly.

He swallowed. "You did this," he ground out, with all the fury of a nation scorned. "This is your fault."

"How in God's name is this _my_ fault? Were you truly so blind that you didn't think he was destined to be more than what you wanted him to be?"

Arthur didn't respond.

"You saw his strength, when he was just a baby. Don't you dare tell me you didn't know this was written in the stars."

Finally, he slammed his hand down on the windowsill and rounded on Francis. Despite his involvement in Alfred's war, he looked no less breathtakingly handsome than he usually did, and it felt like a punch to the gut. "The _stars?_ What do the stars have to do with this, you senile old fool?"

"He needs to spread his wings, it's in his blood. That doesn't mean he loves you any less!"

"You foul creature. Tell it how it is. You'd walk to the ends of the earth to see me fail!"

"That isn't true."

Despite the aches in his bones that came with defeat, Arthur managed a few steps toward his adversary. He caught the slightest motion of Francis's hand and it was at that moment that he realized he had his sword on him. Out of instinct, Arthur's own hand moved to hover over the pistol holstered on his hip.

"Why the hell are you here?" he asked, but it was little more than a growl.

Francis huffed. "Do you think I've lost so much of my heart that I wouldn't pay an old friend a visit?"

"You're a wretched nation, Francis Bonnefoy. I ought to shoot you where you stand."

"Why? Because I helped give your son the freedom you weren't willing to?"

Something ardent and vile erupted within Arthur; he briefly considered drawing his pistol and sticking to his word. Instead, he dropped his arm. Then he drew it back quickly enough for Francis to not have any time to react when he struck him, violently, across the face.

The sound cut through the air like a knife and he stumbled backwards with a hiss. Several moments passed before Francis glared in Arthur's direction and pointed at him.

"Let me tell you something, _darling_ ," he sneered, clutching his cheek. "Any nation would think Alfred must have learned his childish tantrums from the man who raised him."

Arthur turned back to the windowsill and didn't watch Francis take his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur kirkland you are so goddamn insufferable i swear


	2. a fond reunion (netherlands/canada)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time as a healthy, post-war nation, Netherlands meets with Canada and ponders over what he means to him.
> 
> Prompt was "'Oh, look at you!' with NedCan".

"Netherlands!"

Andries hardly had time to recognize the voice before a body barreled into his own. Out of instinct, he raised his arms to steady them, and his heart leapt as he grasped the fact that Canada - handsome, selfless, gentle Matthew - was back.

"Let me see you, let me..." Matthew took a step back and brought up a hand to cradle Andries's face. Immediately, his eyes lit up and he broke into a smile. "Oh, look at you! You look so well!"

The firmness of Matthew's gloved hand on his cheek briefly rendered him unable to speak, but after a moment had passed he managed to regain his thoughts. "It's nice to see you too, Canada," he rumbled, trying to keep his voice stable so he wouldn't betray the profound warmth in his chest.

They had shared something in the long weeks after Ludwig's surrender. Even though he wasn't obligated to, Matthew had opted to stay behind in Europe to keep a watchful eye on Andries. Neither of his siblings were well enough in their own right to do so, and there was something about a benevolent nation's presence that made him heal a little faster. They had shared each other's companionship during that time, as Andries regained his strength and his wounds healed. It was difficult for him to admit, but he'd be lying if he said Matthew's easy smile and everlasting patience didn't send his heart into fits.

Those long nights confiding in one another had since passed, but the longing Andries felt certainly had not.

He was coaxed out of his thoughts by a slight tug to his sleeve. "Walk with me? And we can catch up?"

Andries nodded once, wanting desperately to reach out and latch onto Matthew's hand as if it were a lifeline. Which, he supposed, at one point perhaps it was. 

"I wish you had told me you were coming," he lamented. "Then I could have been home to greet you."

His partner couldn't suppress a small grin. "No time for all that! Besides, I found you just fine, didn't I?"

The pair turned a corner where they met a quaint bridge, arching its way across a narrow canal. When they reached the crest of the bridge, Matthew rested one hand on the railing and snaked the other around Andries's waist, drawing him close.

"I've missed you. It's lonely all the way across the ocean."

Andries didn't say anything to that at first. Instead, he buried his nose into Matthew's hair and swore that no one else - human, nation, or otherwise - could do this to him. There was not another living being on the planet who could smell so strongly of vast tundra and frozen maple trees and yet be so warm.

"What about your brother?" he asked. "Aren't you close?"

Matthew sighed heavily. "Alfred doesn't make for great company anymore." There was something wistful in his voice, as if he was recalling memories from long ago. "He's been like that for a while, I suppose, but now he's all 'Ivan this, Ivan that,' and I don't know if I can bother to care. We've only just won this war; why does he seem so eager to start a new one?"

With a hum of consideration, Andries tightened his grip around his shoulders. "Let's not think about that right now. I missed you too."

This time, it was Matthew's turn to stay silent. He shifted so that he could press his face against the fabric of Andries's scarf. 

"Canada," he said, but it came out choked with emotion. "Matthew. I promise, no matter what the rest of the world does in the future, I will repay you." Nothing in the whole of Europe mattered more than this. Not his finances, not his other allies, not his government. Only this. "I will do anything you need me to."

"Oh?" His eyes sparkled behind his glasses with a mischief he had hardly seen before. "Anything?"

"Yes, of course."

As Matthew leaned upwards to bring their lips together, Andries could have sworn that all his remaining scars had begun to fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, they're already a little...familiar with each other, as it were, in this. long nights spent worrying over the fate of the world tends to result in lots of cuddles, hand-holding, and a few accidental kisses!


	3. hesitance (germany/italy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared moment leaves Germany unsure of how to express affection towards his sweetheart.
> 
> Prompt was "'Kiss me again?' with GerIta".

It was all so new.

To have someone who was explicitly and unabashedly _his_ was something Ludwig didn't know how to handle. Just existing in Feliciano's presence made his blood sing, his eyes wander, and his heart swell. As much as he wanted to lean over and touch him, he was almost too handsome to disturb. 

Feliciano was usually flighty and anxious, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. That's what centuries of being a conman and a pickpocketer had taught him. Keep your eyes open. Stay weary of your surroundings. Be quick, be swift, then run, run, run.

Now, lying beside the man who would walk through hell itself for him, Feliciano showed no signs of that. He was sprawled out, his hands folded behind his head and his shirt undoubtedly picking up a few grass stains. His eyes were shut, his face turned towards the sun as if he was trying to soak in all its warmth. He was smiling; not in the radiant way he did when he was excited, but in the way that made him look like he had all the time in the world. Sunlight lit up his curls, his freckles, and the cross that was rising and falling steadily with his chest.

There was little Ludwig desired more than to lean over him, to press his lips against his throat, to card his fingers through his hair. He was very aware that Feliciano not only minded but welcomed physical affection. He had informed Ludwig, in that courteous, patient manner he often did, that he could hold him and kiss him whenever he liked.

 _No need to ask,_ he had said. _If I don't want it then I will tell you. My treasure, don't be afraid of something as precious as love._

Despite all of this, Ludwig was still hesitant. Was it strange to just ease in close and kiss him? Was a kiss on his cheek more acceptable than one on his lips? 

"Good lord, Ludwig. It's like I can hear you thinking."

For the first time, he noticed he was no longer watching Feliciano but instead was fixated on a strand of grass. His lover was staring at him with amused eyes, the gentle smile steadily growing into a knowing smirk.

He sighed. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

Ludwig grumbled and lay back once more. "I don't know."

With a slight groan, Feliciano rolled to the side and shifted his weight onto his elbow. He extended a hand for Ludwig to take, and once their fingers were laced together he shuffled forward to nestle comfortably against his shoulder.

"Is that what you wanted?"

The words were stuck in Ludwig's throat. He pushed his nose into Feliciano's hair, breathing in the faint scents of grass and far too expensive cologne. He was much like the sun, Ludwig reckoned: warm and dazzling and the source of life itself.

"Yes."

Feliciano let out a noise akin to a purr. " _Caro_ , please. I've told you time and time again. There's no need to be so shy when you're with me."

A moment passed.

"Then will you kiss me?" Ludwig pleaded.

Feliciano kissed as if he was born to do so, as if all the world around them couldn't pry him away from the nation beside him. His hand left Ludwig's to cradle his face, to run his long painter's fingers against his jaw. No war won, no enemy defeated, no government overthrown, no riches gained felt as full and right as this did. As _he_ did.

"Now, if there's ever anything you want me to do, you tell me!" he chided, lightly punching his chest in mock exasperation. "Promise."

"Alright, I promise," Ludwig said, bumping his forehead against the other man's. "Kiss me again?"

Then Feliciano laughed, bright and unyielding, before he took Ludwig's face in his hands and surged forward to do just that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love ludwig he's so gay and so stupid


	4. the endless night (lithuania/poland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next few entries will be part of a kiss prompt.
> 
> Lithuania and Poland, and a kiss goodnight. They're in love...they are so in love. Based on a little headcanon I have that poor Lithuania can't stay asleep to save his life.

Feliks started awake, propelled into consciousness by something he couldn't remember. He stilled for a moment, unable to make sense of the sudden darkness before the weight of his covers grounded him in reality.

_Ugh._

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself before turning over and reaching out across the bed. Feliks expected to be greeted by sleep-warm skin and soft fabric, but his slumbering partner was unfortunately replaced by cool sheets.

A prickle of anxiety unfurled in the pit of his stomach. He knew deep down that Tolys was fine, but he couldn't help but feel uneasy. What if he had been hurt? What if he had run away, or had been taken away? What if - and this was the possibility that frightened him the most - falling asleep beside him had been nothing but a good dream?

Stretching the sleep from his muscles, Feliks clambered out of their bed and headed towards the living room, where he knew his best chance of finding Tolys was.

And he was correct.

He was slouched over on an ottoman, his face to the window and a quilt draped around his shoulders. A candle was settled on the coffee table a few feet away, but due to the moonlight drifting through the windowpanes, Feliks assumed it didn't add that much more lighting.

Rubbing his eyes, he made sure to approach Tolys somewhat noisily, as to not spook him. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around his neck and rested his cheek upon his head.

"Watching the snow?"

Tolys hummed in response, leaning back into his partner's embrace. There had been a time, not too long ago, when Feliks was unsure about whether they'd ever be able to have this again. The wounds were once open and fresh, and although they had made progress, the scars occasionally lurked in the back of his mind.

It would never be the same as it was all those years ago, but maybe it didn't have to be. Maybe this could be better.

He held onto Tolys just a little tighter.

"What are you doing up?" Tolys asked, the vibrations of his voice sending a ripple of warmth through his companion. "You were sound asleep when I came out here."

"I don't know," Feliks sighed. "What woke me up, I mean. I'm _up_ up because you weren't there."

Tolys chuckled at that, tilting his head back so his nose brushed against his jaw. "I'm sorry for being an inconvenience," he teased.

He received a smile in turn. "I know. Why do I bother?" Then he brushed back a tendril of his partner's hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Bad night?"

"Not particularly. I only needed to get up and do something." It was then that Feliks noticed the book in his lap.

"Did you try taking melatonin?"

"It doesn't work for me, you know that."

He did, but it was worth a try. As a show of sympathy, he kissed his face again, slower this time. "I'm going back to sleep. You should try to too."

Feliks released his hold on him, and Tolys fell back into his slouch, turning back to the window. "Well, then. Goodnight."

"You aren't coming?"

"I will in a bit. I just need to keep my eyes open a little longer, get myself a little sleepier."

"Whatever you want. All I want is for you to not be so tired in the morning." He briefly placed a hand on Tolys's back, signaling that he was being sincere. Before he turned to leave, he leaned down, the ends of his hair tickling his cheek. "May I have a kiss?"

He could feel his smile, and when they kissed, Feliks felt like he could die happily. They were alone together, in a house not owned by anyone but them, and they were mending. That sounded like a happy ending if he had ever heard one.

"Goodnight."

Half an hour later, Feliks felt Tolys climb into bed beside him; as soon as he processed the thought, he sunk back down into sleep, steady and dreamless.


	5. hell hath no fury (hungary/belgium)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss as comfort, in which Erzsébet gets herself into trouble at a social event, and Anouk hears her out.

It started with a sharp clap slicing its way through the room. Belgium jumped, and when she turned to see what the commotion was, Hungary was looming fiercely over England. Her hand was outstretched, and Arthur had fixed her with a disbelieving gaze. He had lost his grip on his champagne flute - it was now lying several feet away from him, the alcohol splattered across the floor.

Erzsébet rose her arm again as if to strike him a second time. Then she shook her head, narrowed her eyes and marched away.

The remaining nations had fallen silent.

Anouk turned to Feliciano, who she had been engaged in conversation with just moments before. "Excuse me."

Without a second thought, she took off after Erzsébet. It didn't take her much time to find her; she had burst through the entrance of the building and was pacing wildly.

"What on earth was that about?"

Erzsébet reered around to face her, and Anouk nearly flinched when she bore witness to the wrath in her eyes. "Kirkland," she sneered. "I hate him. I hate him so much."

"Oh, darling, I don't think that's true. I reckon he isn't that bad."

"You don't understand!" Her fists were clenching and unclenching with rage. "He - he had the _gall_ to claim that I'd be faded by now if it weren't for Austria. Austria! That man needs help mounting a horse and _I'm_ indebted to _him?_ "

Anouk shuffled a little closer, hoping it would calm her down a little. "Are you sure that's what he meant? Maybe he just said it the wrong way."

"Well, he surely said it like he meant it!" Erzsébet cried. "I slept underneath the stars, on the steppe, in the _dirt_ when I was a child. Roderich has slept in a bed his entire life, never worrying about the quality of the fucking feathers in his pillow." That wasn't true, not completely, but she was too upset to care. "I kept his house clean for years. I kept Prussia shit-scared enough that he wouldn't come galloping over his border again. Europe would have eaten him alive if it weren't for me! And Arthur dares to tell me that I should be grateful to him? Bullshit, every last word of it."

She paused to take a deep breath, and when she spoke again, every word dripped with venom. "I am not the dumb woman he seems to think I am. I have as much fire in my blood as every man in there."

A few moments went by before Anouk steadily leaned against her. "You always did know how to give a good speech."

She huffed, as if she didn't believe her. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. If you keep talking I might waltz back in there and kill him myself."

It was then that Erzsébet realized Anouk was rubbing steady circles on her back, and she sighed, burying her face in her hands.

"Maybe I overreacted."

Anouk smiled. _Maybe?_ "I just don't understand why you're so upset over something said by Arthur, of all nations. Everyone knows he has a mouth too big for his brain."

The jab at Arthur seemed to lighten her spirits, and Erzsébet laughed. The anger flowing through her veins had begun to dissipate. "I guess you're right. Suppose he hit a nerve." She slapped a hand over her eyes. "Now I'll have to go back in there and apologize to the bastard."

"Please, don't take it to heart." Her voice was characteristically gentle, but there was something else there too. "No one in there doubts your strength or your honor."

Erzsébet turned her head to look at her, and their noses just barely touched. For the first time she noticed the vibrancy of Anouk's hazel eyes, how she gazed at her like she sympathized with all that she felt. Her hair fell in ringlets down to her chin and Erzsébet could not tear her eyes away. She realized that if she had to spend eternity counting the freckles on her skin, she'd be alright with it.

"If the others look at me and think I've grown soft, what do I have left?" It was barely a breath, barely a whisper. "I worked twice as hard to get half as far than any of them."

"Nobody thinks that," Anouk murmured, her voice even quiter. "Nobody at all. I can assure you."

Before either of them could come to their senses, one of them leaned in. Neither knew who it was, but neither cared - what was more important was the kiss of the woman in front of her, the smile against her lips and the hair brushing against her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like the idea of hungary not getting along with england. i also like the idea of hungary being such a free spirit that her domestic life with austria forced her to fall out of love with him. just a personal interpretation!


	6. with all of his might (denmark/norway)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss on a scar. Based off a very old headcanon I have about some nations possessing the ability to heal each other, but it sucks.
> 
> Warning for blood, talk of death, and descriptions of a wound.

* * *

  
When Matthias managed to find his way back home, he almost didn't bother opening the door. He could have fainted at the doorstep, and to him that would have been perfectly well and good. By nothing short of a miracle, he remained on his own two feet and stumbled inside.

"Norway," he choked out. "Nils, please, help me."

The cabin was lit softly by candlelight. Where he was sitting, with the flame reflecting off his pale skin, Nils looked like a ghost - a ghost who had come to carry him to wherever their kind went.

That moment seemed to last forever, before his partner lept from his seat, throwing down what looked to be a basket he was in the process of weaving. "There you are! What happened?"

"Sweden got me," he hissed out, clenching his teeth in agony. "Ambush. Was only me and a few of my men."

They grabbed onto each other, though Matthias's grip was weak with the loss of blood.

"Did he kill you?"

"He sure as shit tried."

"And the others?"

Matthias said nothing.

"You need to sit down." Nils wiggled his way beneath Matthias's good shoulder, encouraging him to lean on him. "Come, this way."

It was a bit of a struggle, getting Matthias to lie down on his mattress without jostling his wound. Somehow they worked it out, and Nils took pause once he was settled. For a moment he considered leaving him, walking away to let the injury take care of itself.

What kind of friend would that make him, he wondered.

"Matthias," he said, resting a hand on his arm. "Matthias, may I take a look at what he did to you?"

He barely had the strength to respond, but he gritted his teeth and turned his head away from him. "Go ahead."

Gingerly, Nils unclipped his cape, bundling it up and tucking it behind Matthias's head for extra support. He grabbed a blade from the nightstand and steadily but firmly began to cut away his tunic. It was sticky and stained with golden blood, and when he got a view of the wound, he winced.

The laceration was deep; Berwald's blade must have hit bone. Nevertheless, it was clean. It should have healed itself by now, but instead it continued to bleed.

"Gods above, Matthias. How come it ain't healed yet?"

Matthias swiveled his head around to try and get a better look. "Reckon he got me good. Too good."

Nils swallowed, his throat tight. He knew what he had to do.

"Lie back."

"Don't, Nils. It ain't worth the fight." He took a shuddering breath. "Let me go, I'll be back. That's the best way."

"I said lie _back_ , you silly fool."

If the wound were worse - or, in a way, better - he would have considered Matthias's request. Sometimes death was easier. In this instance, though, it wouldn't be an easy passing. His stubborn spirit and the unfortunate location of the injury would assure that he'd be alive for a while longer, and that was not something Nils wanted to see him go through.

The healing process was an ancient art, one few nations had managed to perfect. Although Nils still had a long way to go, he knew how to get it done, so he did.

Forcing his hands to stop trembling, he pulled a chair up beside the bed and took a seat. He ran his fingers once through his patient's hair, muttering for him to stay still. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he pressed his hands against the gash, grimacing at the texture of the torn flesh. With all the might he had within him, he prayed to the stars and willed for it to heal.

It was hell. At first, he could feel his heartrate pick up and pure adrenaline flooded his veins. The world around him faded away until there was only black. His head began to spin and his hands went numb. He didn't know his own name, where or what or who he was; all he knew was that he felt like he was dying.

It could have lasted seconds or years, and he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. Finally, feeling the wound stitch up beneath his hands, he let go with a gasp and fell forwards against Matthias's chest. He reeked of stale blood, sweat, and dirt, but Nils couldn't care. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything.

Briefly, he registered Matthias raising a hand and settling it on his back, in between his shoulder blades. He noticed himself shaking, so he kept his eyes shut tight and willed for his body to calm down.

When the sensation began to seep back into his arms, he declared, "That shit never gets easier."

He shifted to survey his work, and what was a horrendous wound only a few moments ago had simmered down to a rigid white scar. Chuckling weakly, Nils shuffled the slightest bit and pressed his lips against it, as if that would finish the job.

Matthias leaned his head against his own, and neither of them moved for a long, long time.


	7. to be alone with you (finland/sweden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timo and Berwald set up camp in the woods.

"Well, then. I suppose this is as good a spot as any."

Berwald hummed in agreement, setting down his bag. Every corner of the snowy woods looked the same to him, but if Timo said this was where they should set up camp, that's what they would do.

Timo turned to him, his hands on his hips. "I'm going to look for decent firewood. You clear this spot away as best you can," he commanded. "We've still got an hour or so left of daylight."

With an amused smirk, Berwald gave a small salute. "Yes, sir."

As he got to work, his smile didn't fade away. It wasn't like Timo to invite someone along with him on one of his camping trips. When he surrendered himself to the wilderness, he usually preferred to be alone, finding his only company in the rocks and the trees.

As it was, Timo also possessed a nose for trouble. Running into one too many bears, falling through a frozen lake, getting himself caught in a snowstorm - it had all happened before.

Every so often, however, he reckoned it was nice to have someone accompany him on his expeditions. A whole separate pair of eyes could do wonders, Timo had said, and Berwald took that to mean _"thank you for not letting me stumble into another fox trap on accident."_

Before long, the two of them had managed to build a home for the night. Berwald did not share his companion's adventurous nature, and was instead a homebody through and through. If he was calling the shots, they'd be curled up together before the fireplace, all thoughts of the biting winter winds left outside where they belonged.

Then Timo leaned against him, solid and steady, and any homesickness was swept away with the evening breeze.

"Cold?"

"A little bit. Not terribly. It won't be so bad once the fire picks up."

Of course not. Timo's resistance to the cold was a skill to be revered. He reached for Berwald's gloved hands, pressing his cheek against his shoulder. His chest lit up, as bright and golden as the setting sun reflecting off the snow-dusted forest.

His heart in his throat, Berwald buried his nose in Timo's hair. "I love you," he whispered.

He felt his beloved sigh, as was his usual response. "I know you do." His voice was low and rough, as though he didn't want the trees to hear.

"I don't think I've ever loved someone this much before." It wasn't a lie.

The man in question raised his head from his arm, looking up in surprise. When he saw the fond smile on his face, he chuckled nervously. "Oh, come on. That's not true."

"It is." He was so close. "I think I'd do anything for you."

Those were unusually romantic words coming from him, and slowly, Timo pulled himself away from his warmth. The snow crunched under his boots as he shuffled towards the far end of their campfire, so that he was facing Berwald. He was silent as he plucked branches from their pile of firewood and methodically placed them on the blaze.

Several moments passed as the two of them watched the flames hungrily lap up the sticks. Then Timo smiled, his cheeks rosy from the heat of the fire and perhaps something else.

"I'm honored, my dear."

He wanted to kiss him, to push him back into the snowdrifts and ravish him, to stave off the cold with only their body heat. He wouldn't, of course, not after they had endured so much together. It had taken decades to earn Timo's trust - his real, genuine trust - and he wouldn't ruin that by rushing into something that they had eternity to work on.

As the last rays of light trickled beneath the horizon, they plucked the season's final berries from their bushes and roasted fish over their fire. It was almost like the old days.

When the moon hung high in the sky, they settled down for the night. Berwald drifted off to Timo's recounting of the constellations and the sensation of his hand slipping into his own.


	8. the rescue (canada, england)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Matthew gets himself into trouble, and Arthur begrudgingly carries out his parental duties.

As honestly and as dearly as he loved his sons, it was at times like this when Arthur felt like perhaps being a caretaker was not the ideal job for a nation like him. A pistol in one hand and a lantern in the other, he trudged through the vegetation, wanting nothing more than to get this over with.

"Matthew!" he cried, holding his lantern above his head. "For God's sake, Matthew, where have you gone?"

Rival ships could be sunk with an accurately-placed cannonball. A French knight could be slaughtered with a proper swing of a sword. Wars won, treaties signed. That business made sense to him.

A runaway child was a completely different matter.

Arthur shook brambles from his boot, and as a result nearly slipped face-first into the dirt. He was grateful that the mud at least gave him a trail to follow, but he would have preferred to not have to do anything like this at all.

It seemed as if all his children were trouble, in one way or another. Alfred had a fire within him that, excuse his vulgar language, unnerved the shit out of Arthur. He was destined for something, and he hadn't the slightest clue as to what that something might be.

Matthew, on the other hand, caused issues without intending to. He was always flighty, often spooked by the most trivial of reasons. If Alfred was a wild mustang, hollering and stomping all the way home, then Matthew was a songbird, there one moment and gone the next.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Matthew!"

"Papa?"

_Damn._

He lifted his lantern further above his head, scanning the branches, and cursed internally as he laid eyes on what he was searching for.

The child was at least twenty feet above the ground, clinging desperately to the tree trunk. Even from his spot on the ground, Arthur could tell he was trembling.

"Oh, you bastard," he murmured to himself before he raised his voice. "Matthew, what are you doing all the way up there?"

It took Matthew a second to collect his thoughts, but when he did, he gripped the tree even tighter. "I don't know."

"Christ alive, what do you mean you don't know?"

"I don't know!" He sounded like he was close to tears.

"Well, do you need me to come up there or can you get down yourself?"

Matthew sniffled. "I'll try."

Arthur felt a rush of affection. "Thank you, poppet."

Gingerly, he shuffled so that he was no longer supported by the branch. Paternal instinct engulfed Arthur and he stepped forward so he was right beneath the child, holding up his arms.

Then Matthew slipped and squealed. He managed to catch himself, but immediately retreated back to the safety of the branches.

"Oh, for-" Arthur bit back another curse before setting down his pistol and lantern. "Alright, don't move. I'm coming to get you."

It took an effort, but before long Matthew had both feet on the ground. He grabbed onto the ends of Arthur's jacket with all his strength and buried his face in the soft fabric. In response, Arthur lowered a hand to bring him closer.

"What on earth was that about? Why'd you run away from home?"

Matthew didn't answer.

"Honestly, Canada. Tell me what's wrong." There was frustration in his tone, and he felt the child cringe.

"I can't," he whimpered, loosening his grip. "You'll get upset."

Arthur huffed. "I assure you, I'm already upset!"

It was said in an rougher manner than he had intended, but it was enough to send Matthew bolting away from him and into the undergrowth.

Now he'd done it. "Come back here right now!"

Matthew was quick, but so was Arthur, and only a few moments had passed before he had him in his grasp once more. He wanted to throttle him, but miraculously he managed to hold back.

"What the _hell_ has gotten into you?"

Promptly, he burst into tears. "I'm sorry!" he wailed. "I had a bad dream, and it felt so real, I thought something was wrong!"

Well. That certainly was not what Arthur was expecting. He set Matthew down and knelt beside him. "Why didn't you come to me, dear?"

The small nation wiped the fat tears from his cheeks before launching himself into Arthur's arms. "I was too scared. I don't know."

At the meekness in his voice, guilt welled within Arthur. He cradled the boy in his arms, rocking him back and forth. "If you're frightened, don't go running off. That only makes it worse for everyone. If you need me, I'll be there, okay?"

Matthew nodded. Though his panic had sated, he still looked a little spooked, so Arthur lifted him up and kept a solid grasp on him as they began their venture back home. 


	9. afterlife (france/england)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis engage in some good old-fashioned banter, with Paris as their witness.

The night was warm, but breezy enough to make Francis shiver, so he pulled his sweater tighter around himself and shifted his weight against the balcony's railing. Things were okay, now, he supposed, in this strange modern world. Better than they had been, at least.

Deep in thought, he almost didn't notice when Arthur joined him. "Enjoying the view?"

To this day, he was still occasionally caught off guard when he saw his longtime rival lounging about his house like they had been friends their entire lives. It didn't feel familiar, but it was nice.

Francis hummed. "It almost never gets old." His gaze on his city didn't waver. "After all it's been through, it still stands. There were times when I thought it wouldn't. Oftentimes I wonder about how, in the end, it will die."

He heard a soft chuckle from beside him.

"My God," grumbled Arthur, leaning in even closer. He reached out and tucked a lock of Francis's hair behind his ear. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Francis snickered back, shuffling so their shoulders were touching. "Not as long as my voice still works, dearest."

For a few minutes, they stood in silence. It was not uncomfortable silence, as it would have been even half a century ago. Nothing threatened to disrupt them; neither braced for what the other would say next.

Then Arthur broke the tranquility. "What do you suppose will happen to us when we go?"

They'd had this conversation many times before, but for whatever reason he felt the need to bring it up again. Maybe it was because it provided him with a sense of comfort, that one day they'd end up the same way every human did. Maybe it was because it was a topic that was always up for debate. Maybe it was because he was curious as to what Francis's response would be and if it had changed. He didn't know why.

Francis hadn't answered, so he nudged him. "Hey."

"Oh, I'm sorry, my prince," he crooned. "I thought I never stopped talking."

Arthur rolled his eyes, not believing Francis's feigned indignation for a single second. "Consider this an exception."

He took a moment to consider his answer, then shrugged. "I don't think about it as much anymore," he confessed. "It'll be a long while before we'll have to worry about that. There's no use in discussing it. I don't suppose we go to the same place the humans do."

Arthur pricked up. "No?"

Francis shook his head. "Probably not."

His partner pursed his lips. "Any particular reason for that?"

"No. I just don't think it'd be what happens."

"Ah."

 _What a horrid thing to believe_ , thought Arthur. _Powerless to see any of your old friends, leaders, or heroes after an eternity of life...though I guess the lot of us deserve nothing less._

"Suppose I'm getting old," he sighed. "Old and worrisome."

"Oh, Arthur. You were always old. You were born old, and worrisome from the start." Francis offered his hand, and Arthur took it after a moment's hesitation. "Me, on the other hand, well, I was beautiful once. And I'm older than you, so...how dare you insult me?"

Running his thumb over Francis's knuckles, he taunted, "Trust me, insulting you is not difficult." Even so, he tilted his head so it rested against his partner's, and Francis did the same. "I don't think I'd be able to love you if I wasn't allowed to poke at you every so often."

"I did not know you were so capable of feeling love," purred Francis, almost unable to breathe.

"Of course I love you." It was mumbled against his jaw, low and quiet like he was bearing the most vulnerable part of himself. Then, louder, he added, "See, I love you in the way that someone comes to love the cockroach that's taken up residence in their garden." His voice lowered again and when he spoke, it was light and teasing. "And because they can't catch the horrid creature, they just let it stay."

Francis laughed heartily. "You are being extra sweet today, aren't you, Arthur?"

"Don't push your luck."

"Or what?" He pulled him closer. "What are you going to do? You are in _my_ house, after all."

"I'm surprised you're under the impression I'd hold back from strangling you anywhere."

The smile on Francis's face only grew wider. "Maybe you aren't so old, after all. You're just as much of a wretch as you were five hundred years ago."

A rare laugh, true and bright and clear, bubbled in Arthur's chest. "I'll take that!"

The night breeze made its way to the balcony once again, but Francis hardly felt it, instead entranced by the amusement of the nation beside him. He realized then that he didn't quite care where he would end up when the world went dark, and he prayed to all the gods above that Arthur shared that sentiment.


	10. starlight (prussia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prussia receives word on how he's supposed to create the new Germany.
> 
> Alternatively, two of Prussia's dead loved ones convince him to go grave robbing.

When Gilbert opened his eyes, the world around him was different. He knew he wasn't awake, that was for sure, but the ground beneath his feet was solid and there was the scent of something sweet and comforting in the air.

He was standing in the woods, presumably in his own country. When he looked up, the light shimmering through the leaves was that of a pre-dawn sky. The stars and the moon shone brighter than Gilbert had ever seen them, and though he was stranded in the wilderness at this time of day, he didn't feel threatened.

"Well. Isn't it nice to see you?"

Gilbert turned to be greeted with a face he never thought he would see again. The boy looked no older than sixteen, but his eyes betrayed a wisdom far beyond his physical age. His hair shone with starlight, as if he wasn't a solid being, and Gilbert didn't know whether he should jump into his arms or flee.

"It's you," he whispered. "It's you, Knights Templar." A nod, then Gilbert was engulfed in a sense of regret as he realized why he was here. "Oh, Soloman. I'm so sorry."

The boy shook his head, his expression showing no malice. "There's no need to be sorry. None at all."

"You didn't deserve what happened to you."

"It was my fate. I couldn't have changed it." He leaned forward to take ahold of his hand, and his touch was like ice. "It's been a long time. I'm glad it was you who made it."

Before he could say anything else, Soloman's gaze shifted, fixed on something behind Gilbert. Against his better judgment, he whirled around and got just as much of a shock as he did with Soloman.

He was exactly as Gilbert remembered him. A stoic face, eyes as hard as stone, silky blond hair that was braided far more intricately than was necessary.

"Germania?"

The man nodded, filled to the brim with grace and honor. He was all Gilbert had ever wanted to be, and now that they were face to face, he was unsure of how well he had done thus far.

"Indeed." He didn't seem upset, and Gilbert sighed in relief. "You and your comrades wish to create a new Germany, a unified Germany."

"Yes," breathed Gilbert. So he had been watching.

"We give that plan our blessing." _Who's we?_ "But things might not be as...straightforward as they usually are."

"You still have Holy Roman Empire's body," Soloman put forth. "Isn't that right?"

For a long moment, Gilbert had no idea how to respond. His dear brother wasn't here, then. He was still six feet under, rotting, never allowed entrace to heaven nor hell. That was no death for a nation.

"I don't have his body," he choked out. "We buried him decades ago. He was so ill, and...he died, he was a corpse. He wasn't breathing. He had no pulse. He was cold."

Against his will, he remembers the day his brother had died. The rush of sheer horror as he realized his body hadn't faded returned to him as he stood before his two fallen companions. He recalls the terror of reaching out to every old nation he knew of, begging them to explain this, asking desperately if any of them had ever seen something like this.

They hadn't, and none of them knew what to say.

He couldn't have a decomposing corpse in his house, that much was for sure. Gilbert and his brothers encased him in a tomb and buried him like they would any human.

It hadn't felt right.

It would never feel right.

Adelhelm watched him intently, revealing no emotion. "The Holy Roman Empire is dead," he agreed. "But his body still belongs to the living."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"His spirit is gone, but his physical form is Germany's for the taking."

"How?"

Adelhelm didn't answer that. "You must retrieve his body."

_"What?"_

"It's the only way," murmured Soloman, placing a hand on Gilbert's shoulder.

He turned on his old friend, desperation creeping into his voice. "Can't you just make a new body for the new Germany? Who's in charge of all of this?"

Soloman shook his head sadly. "Not even we know."

"And you want me to raise the child who I just buried?" Panic unfurled in his stomach and began to crawl up his throat. "How do you think that will make _me_ feel, to see my brother's corpse start walking around again?"

Soloman grimaced, but he and Adelhelm had already begun to fade. "I'm sorry," he said, but no sound was heard.

The forest began to dissipate, the dawn sky falling into black. The stars burnt out, and as he turned to run, the branches and roots winded around his arms. They held him in place as the two figures in front of him flickered out into nothing.

"No! Don't leave me alone! Come back!"

As he got one last glimpse of his loved ones, he could have sworn there was a small child, eyes as blue as the noonday sky, peering out from behind Adelhelm.

Before he got the chance to beg further, everything was gone.

Gilbert lurched forwards, nearly sending himself tumbling off his bed. Flailing wildly, he tried to steady himself and gather his thoughts.

_Jesus. No more beer before bed, Prussia._

Something caught his eye, so he sat up, leaned over, and lit a candle. Resting on his nightstand was a sheet of paper, completely blank except for a single sentence.

_"Do what you must do."_

Gilbert cringed, his stomach twisting. He felt like he was going to be sick. He knew his kind could have visions and premonitions, but nothing even close to _that_ had ever happened before.

Falling back onto his mattress, he stared at the ceiling for a long while.

"I have to get his body back," he echoed, turning his head to peer out the window. Somewhere out there, under the ground and stuffed in a tomb, was the body of his brother. Unlike what he had previously believed, it was fine. In prime condition. Ready for a new nation to call it home.

Before the sun had the chance to rise over the horizon, he stood and sat at his desk. He gathered paper and a quill, trying to calm himself down as he uncapped a container of ink. There was no way in hell he was doing this alone.

 _"Roderich,"_ Gilbert wrote, his hands trembling violently, _"I think we've got a situation we need to take care of."_


	11. untitled (germany/italy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig makes a decision, and he and Feli share a moment in the dead of night. Prompt was "Be careful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love the idea of lud and feli's relationship being more or less secret until ehhh maybe the mid-90s? idk why, i just do.

"I'm going to tell him."

There was a small snort from the blankets. "Hmm?" Feliciano lifted his head, looking sleepily up at Ludwig. He hadn't noticed he had spoken out loud.

He tightened his grasp around his shoulders, unsure if he did so to comfort his lover or himself. "My brother. I'm going to tell him I love you."

Feliciano sighed contentedly, returning his head to Ludwig's chest. His curls tickled his chin, and he shifted to tangle their legs further. The rush of adoration Ludwig felt at the sensation of his bare skin was almost too much.

"That's good. He loves you, he deserves to know," he murmured thoughtfully. Then he paused. "You aren't worried about what he might say?"

Maybe he should have been - maybe he was. He couldn't tell. He would be glad to have his and Feliciano's relationship out in the open, there was no doubt about that. Even so, Gilbert had the loudest mouth of any man Ludwig had ever met. What if he didn't think Feliciano was good enough for him? What if he, in all his ambition and determination, tried to prevent them from seeing one another?

Ludwig bit his lip and stared up at the ceiling, beginning to wonder how he would even start the conversation.  
  
Oh, no. He was certainly worrying now, wasn't he?

He felt a firm hand on his cheek. "Dearest?"

"Yes, I suppose I am."

Feliciano hummed. Sleep still wearing him down, he raised himself up and settled on top of Ludwig. The latter kept his arms tight around him so he wouldn't slide off. Feliciano wasn't as light as he looked, but the warm weight was gratefully accepted. His eyes were understanding, of course, yet they carried a serious tint to them that wasn't usually present.

"I don't regret anything, Ludwig, even if the entire world doesn't approve." His voice grew deeper as he went on, and it sent a thrill throughout Ludwig. "I think God himself could tell me I wasn't allowed to love you, and still I would not be able to stop."

Feliciano was looking at him like _that_ again. Like the sun and sky could have ceased to exist at that very moment, and he couldn't have possibly cared less. It caused something intense to well up in his chest, something that reminded him of blinding sunlight, of flower-speckled meadows, of soft lips and bright eyes and an unyielding knowledge that this was _right._

"For a long time, I thought you were ashamed of me," Feliciano went on, turning his head to sever their eye contact. "How could a man like that fall in love with a nation like I am? The soft underbelly, the one who shared his country with his brother, the one with the eyes that don't look quite right."

The words made Ludwig almost desperate to learn more. This was the first he'd ever heard of this doubt.

"I could never be ashamed of you," he choked out. "Never, ever."

"I know _now_ that's true. I lost a lot of sleep over it, but sometimes you look at me and I know I have nothing to worry about." He reached up, running the pad of his thumb over Ludwig's sharp cheekbone. "My point is, if you know in your heart that Gilbert loves you, then don't worry. Things will go perfectly fine, my love, I'm sure. Just be careful. Don't let him say stupid things. Don't let him _do_ stupid things."

"I won't." His hands moved to run slowly up and down the length of his back, trying to derive more warmth from him. "No matter what he says, we'll work it out."

Feliciano smiled at that, leaning forward to kiss him deeply in silent assurance. Then he rolled off him and turned his back to return to sleep. Ludwig mourned the loss of the man's comforting touch for the briefest moment before gathering Feliciano into his arms. He pressed a kiss into those curls, deciding he'd take on any nation, Prussian or otherwise, for this.

"We always have."


	12. hell or high water (england/portugal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England tries, briefly, to face his fear of swimming. Prompt was "Can I hold your hand?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @mercurytalia on tumblr for letting me use their name for portugal! i might try to find my own in the future but their name for him is very pretty, so.
> 
> just a heads up, there's a very brief mention of drowning in this, but it isn't bad.

Truth be told, Arthur had never loved anyone like he loved Estevão. He'd cross deserts and sail each and every sea, would slay every beast and slaughter any man to be by his side. There was no question about it.

In spite of all that, by _God_ , did that man test him sometimes.

"You know," he went on, "you might be the only bastard to once have conquered half the world but still has to worry about drowning when he wants to have a bath."

"Leave it, Estevão." All he wanted was to keep strolling along the beach, enjoying the nice evening that he was promised.

"A nation who can't swim!" He gave Arthur a shove. "Whoever heard of such a thing? After all these years!"

"Quit that!" hissed his companion, his patience depleted. "I _can_ swim, just...not like you can. Now, please be quiet before your chattering leaves me deaf."

"I'm flattered, dear."

Arthur grumbled out an unintelligible response at that, instead focusing on the smooth sand underfoot. He'd be hard-pressed to admit it, but he almost always preferred Estevão's beaches to his own. They were a nice change from cold rain and buffeting winds.

Estevão paused. "Why don't I teach you now?"

"Here?"

"Sure. The water's calm enough."

"But..." Arthur turned his gaze to the ocean and took a deep breath. As he stared out at the glittering water, memories that had long since been buried resurfaced. Staring into the depths, wondering what on God's green Earth could possibly live down there. His men and himself falling overboard. Him drowning yet unable to die, the water in his lungs tearing his chest apart as he resurrected.

He loved his ships, in all their power and glory. He loved the salty wind in his face. He loved _conquest_ , the sturdiness of new land beneath his feet.

He did not love the water.

Before he could fret any more, Arthur felt a sturdy hand on his back and warm breath by his ear. "You won't be pulled out, I won't let you."

He shoved the hand away. "I'm old, Estevão. If I haven't learned by now, what makes you think I ever will?"

A pair of lips were briefly pressed against his jaw. "Because you've never had a teacher like me."

Arthur's heart lept at the touch, considering to take Estevão up on his offer. He often felt guilty for not being able to join him whenever he left their bed for an early morning swim. He could take a boat out and catch a fish or two with no trouble at all, but the thought of having to keep himself afloat with only his own body left him frozen with apprehension.

Maybe it was time for that to change. After all, he would trust Estevão with his life; he _had_ trusted him with his life.

This was not battle. This had nothing to do with nationhood. Human children could swim, and he could not. This was stupid, and Arthur was tired of fear welling in the back of his throat.

"Alright. Sure."

He could tell Estevão tried to stifle the delight that spread acorss his face, to little avail. "Come on, then. No point in waiting."

"You want to just...go in?"

Estevão shrugged, already knee-deep in the gentle waves. "Yeah. It's not too chilly."

Arthur followed him in, forcing down the uncertainty as he waded deeper. When the water began to lap at his stomach, he raised his head to find some sort of reassurance in Estevão's composure.

"Do you mind if I..." He coughed to clear his throat. "Can I hold your hand?"

Estevão blinked. "You...you're going to need two hands to swim, love."

Immediately, Arthur flushed and tore his gaze away to look at anything else. He was glad for the cold water at his feet, because the rest of him was burning with embarrassment. "I know that!"

"I don't think you did," he teased, stepping forward to grasp his arm. In a feeble attempt to escape, Arthur thrashed and promptly fell into the shallows.

"You blasted, wretched nation!" he cried out, desperately trying to regain his footing. With a laugh, Estevão leaned down and bowled him over again.

All intentions of learning to swim properly swept away, Arthur retaliated, wrestling the other man down into the water. He couldn't recall the last time he had play-fought. It must have been centuries.

Later, Arthur still would not know how to swim. It didn't matter. He was content, with his damp hair plastered to his scalp and the evening breeze raising goosebumps on his skin.


	13. a not-so-subtle visit (poland, hungary)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerned for her wellbeing, Hungary's oldest friend drops by her new residence. Prompt was "the key is under the mat" with platonic Poland and Hungary.

His heart in his throat, Feliks nervously toyed with the pile of small garden pebbles he had collected. Gingerly, he crept towards the side of the manor, focusing on the quarters he knew his friend would be sleeping in. He held his breath, praying she wouldn't scream at the sight of someone outside her window this late.

She wouldn't. She was Hungary, she was Erzsébet. She'd take matters into her own hands; he'd never known her any other way.

He selected a pebble from his pile and tossed it at the window. It tapped against the glass, but not nearly loud enough to catch her attention. Feliks grit his teeth, then threw another. And another. He became more forceful with each throw until he noticed the warm glow of a candle from within the room.

_Bless you, woman!_

He thought he might die of relief when he made out Erzsébet's silhouette. Though she looked terribly confused, she heaved the window open, and Feliks greeted her with a nervous wave.

"Feliks!" she scolded. "What are you doing? You can't be here!"

"I've come to see you."

Erzsébet shook her head in disbelief. "You can't be here. Austria won't like it if he finds you, you know this!"

Feliks clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "Are you truly under the impression I give any thought as to what that privileged, pompous weasel thinks about me?" He snickered, his jade eyes glinting with mirth. "You know what they say about small men casting big shadows."

Erzsébet bristled. "Don't you say things like that about him! I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?"

The grin was immediately wiped off Feliks's face. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. I haven't seen you in so long, I just..." Some intense, unidentifiable emotion unfurled in his chest. "If only we were children again, tumbling around in the dirt and pulling at each other's hair. Picking mushrooms, taming horses, drawing our own constellations in the stars!"

"I'm afraid that life isn't for me anymore, sweetheart," she muttered with a sad smile. "I have Roderich now, and this manor, and an empire."

Feliks laughed, but it was dry, humorless. Gilbert would get a kick out of this, if he was here! "Oh, don't kid yourself, dear. He's not right for you. This life isn't right for you!"

"Who are you to decide what's right for me?"

"Your best friend!"

_"Keep your voice down!"_

For several moments, they stared at each other, seemingly unsure of what to say next.

Then Feliks tilted his head. "I've heard of Hungary the horse-racing, sword-wielding warrior," he mumbled. "Not Hungary the...housewife."

She huffed and brushed her hair over her shoulder. "Then maybe you should listen harder."

"I've seen you with him. All trussed up like a Christmas chicken."

" _Enough_ , Feliks."

Now that they were alone together, he realized that she was indeed different. Her hair looked longer and softer, as if it was her most prized possession. Her nails were clean, free of dirt and grime, and he noticed that they, too, were beginning to grow. Nevertheless, there was a certain strange expression on her face. Her eyes seemed set further into her skull, her cheekbones seemed higher. _She's tired._

He pressed forward. "So...you live with him now? All the time?"

She shook her head. "Not all the time. Not yet, anyway, only some of my things are here. Which reminds me..." Erzsébet leaned forward to reach out of the window and took Feliks's hand in her own. "I'm not going to be around to tend to my horses anymore. I want you to have them."

Well. _That_ surely got his attention. "Your horses?"

She nodded. "All of them."

"But-" _You love them._

"The key is under the mat. Take anything you need from my home."

"Erzsi," he said, looking at her more intensely than he ever had before, "can I ask you a question?"

She shrugged. "Fine."

"Answer honestly," he pleaded gently.

" _What?_ "

"Do you actually love him?" There was a beat of silence. "Are you happy here?"

Erzsébet stepped back as if she'd been struck, then opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something. Finally, she sighed, and Feliks felt as though it came from a middle-aged woman and not the powerful nation she was meant to be.

"Those horses, Feliks," she murmured, patting his shoulder. "You take damn good care of them."

She shut the window, leaving Feliks standing alone in the soft glow of the moonlight.


	14. warm hands (germany/italy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "your secret is safe with me" for Germany and Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more gay ludwig content because pride month is never over. my headcanon is that lud and feli had something during the great depression, when feli was working for him. that's not too important here, but it's when it takes place.

His face was still hollow with exhaustion and his posture drooped with hunger, but Feliciano managed to pull himself together when he spotted Ludwig sitting beside his bed of cornflowers. He might have thought he was sleeping if he hadn't raised his head before Feliciano could call out to him.

"Feli," Ludwig greeted, his smile not quite meeting his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Is it so wrong to want to see you?" Warmth blossomed in his chest. Ludwig began to gather himself so he could stand, but Feliciano motioned for him not to and joined him in the dirt. It was then that he noticed the watering can beside him, and he frowned. "It isn't like you to need to take a break from watering your flowers."

"I suppose I am just tired," Ludwig reasoned with a shrug. He hummed, twirling a blade of grass around his finger; then he sighed heavily, as if it took too much energy to do even that. "Let's...not talk about that. Let's talk about us."

Feliciano tilted his head, briefly concerned, then nodded. If nothing else, they'd be able to escape the state of the world here, with each other.

"You know, my brother, he's..." Ludwig drifted off, then cleared his throat. "He's beginning to talk."

"I fear Prussia has _always_ talked, tesoro."

A solemn smile made its way onto his friend's lips, but then he glanced down, suddenly entranced by the soil. "He's always expected a lot, and mostly I've been able to do what he wants." _And now there's something I can't,_ was left unspoken, but Feli knew it was there.

"Oh, of course," teased Feliciano. He rested his cheek on the steppe of his shoulder, grinning as he felt Ludwig suck in a sharp breath. "If there was ever a nation so impossibly determined to please that old hawk, it's you."

Ludwig was not smiling anymore. It took a tremendous effort, but with a grunt he managed to clamber onto his own two feet. "He wants me to..." He shook his head as if to clear it of intrusive thoughts. "He said he wants me to find a girl."

A weight settled in Feliciano's chest, heavy and unwelcome. "A nation girl?"

"I would assume so, but-" Ludwig crossed his arms and began to pace. "But I can't imagine which one, so probably not."

Disappointment swept through Feliciano in an almost violent wave. That was unlike Gilbert, he thought, or at least the Gilbert he knew, the one he'd fought alongside. Brushing the dust from his pants, Feliciano followed him, trying his best to comfort him with a simple touch.

"You understand, don't you?" Ludwig demanded, eyes bright with panic and an affection Feliciano knew all too well, one he shouldn't be looking at him with. "You understand why I can't do that?"

Feli's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, and when he spoke, it felt like the breath had just been knocked out of him. "Oh, Ludwig...of course I do."

"You're not like that," he finished for him. "You aren't. You're perfect."

 _You're perfect._ Those two words nearly made him faint, the emotion that followed was that strong. His heart leapt into his throat, suffocating him.

"Well, I...I could marry a woman, but I..." Feliciano's hand was warm on his arm, his thumb running over his skin in an attempt to calm them both. Images of women with rosy cheeks and silky hair flooded his mind, but they were directly followed by the warm hands and solid laughter of all the men he had loved. "I don't know."

Ludwig, kind and intuitive as always, seemed to understand, and he appeared incredibly relieved for only a second. Then he took Feliciano's shoulder, gripping so hard he thought he might shatter.

"Please don't tell Prussia," he implored, his voice choked. "Or anyone, for that matter."

Memories from nearly two centuries ago surfaced, of the many affairs of Gilbert's favorite king and how the nation himself used to flirt endlessly with Feliciano. He could almost feel his lips pressing against Feli's white gloves, could see the playful glint in his eyes as he brushed Francis's hair behind his ear, could hear his nervous laughter as he asked Antonio for a dance.

Now that the attention was off him, he regained his tongue. "Perhaps you should say something to him, Ludwig. Have a little faith in your brother, I think you'd be surprised."

"I'm telling you, Feliciano, I can't. Maybe one day, or maybe not, but I can't right now." A single tear slid down his cheek, and it made Ludwig flinch, as if he was ashamed of it. "You're the only one I can trust, _please_ keep this between us."

There was something he was failing to mention, Feliciano could tell that much. Nevertheless, he knew he wouldn't be able to go behind his back, to reveal something he obviously held so close to himself.

Gingerly, Feliciano reached up to wipe away the fallen tear, then pressed a kiss to the trail it had left.

"Your secret is safe with me."

Before Feliciano could move away, Ludwig leaned forward to trap him in his arms, holding him against himself in silent gratitude. With his ear pressed firmly against his shoulder, Feliciano was able to hear the rhythm of Ludwig's heart racing in his chest. Even though he was weak with starvation, he gripped Feliciano like a lifeline, and the latter was more than content to let him.

Trying not to wince at his fragility, he wrapped his arms around Ludwig's neck, and they cradled each other in the golden glow of the setting sun.


	15. untitled #2 (romania/prussia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "haunted house" with Romania and Prussia.
> 
> In the darkness of Ivan's mansion, Gilbert and Constantin share a moment of vulnerability.

The night would have been beautiful had the windows not been boarded shut.

The room he was permitted was not particularly spacious, but Gilbert was at least grateful for the nook beneath the window. If nothing else, it provided him with a space to curl up, think, and enjoy a well-deserved, stolen beer.

He rested his head against the cold glass, straining to hear the weakest notes of cricket song. He could not, and more than ever Gilbert wished to run, wished he could wander the dense forests and feel the night breeze once more.

"If only I knew how," he sighed, and then took a drink to ease the yearning.

"Do you hear them too?"

_Fuck!_

The beer seized in his throat, and Gilbert felt his immortal soul leave his body as he jumped out of his skin. Forcing himself to not cry out, he whirled around, and a splash of beer struck the back of his throat. The voice registered as _Not Ivan's_ too late, and Gilbert began to splutter.

"Oh, Jesus, Romania, it's just you."

Constantin smirked, the white of his teeth glinting as they caught the moonlight. "Sure. You left the door open. I apologize for giving you a fright."

"I - I thought you were someone less...neighborly."

The smirk turned into a chuckle. "Where'd you get that?" he queried, pointing at the beer and narrowing his eyes.

"It was a gift from the big man."

"Somehow I do not believe he is that generous."

Shrugging, Gilbert cleared his throat before taking a drink.

Costantin shuffled nervously, his eyes flicking back to the door. "He'll notice it's gone."

He allowed the shadow of a sneer to ghost his lips. "He won't. They're for his guests. Guests that he never has, the ones he doesn't want to waste vodka on."

"Is it any good?" asked his visitor, rewarding the explanation with an amused look.

"It's piss, but it'll do."

The two of them stared at one another for several seconds before Constantin took a step foward. "Room for one more?"

Rather than saying anything, Gilbert pulled his legs against himself and gestured to the space he had opened up. He was somewhat squashed against the wall, but as their knees brushed and warmth seeped through the fabric, he decided he could not care less.

"You're a very poor night guard," teased Gilbert. "God knows why he put you in charge."

He swore that Constantin's cheeks reddened just the slightest bit, but then his head settled against the window and his shaggy hair made it impossible to tell. "If I can do anything to make our existence here more tolerable, I'll do it."

"No doubt about that."

In a mansion filled to the brim with old scores and old enemies, Gilbert was glad to have at least one companion. Odd though he was, he guessed they had more in common than they had differences. If there was one red-eyed, Hungarian-warring, little brother-protecting fool out there that wasn't himself, Gilbert supposed he wasn't as alone as he had once believed.

A thought struck him as suddenly as lightning.

"Do I hear what?"

Constantin lifted his head. "Hmm?"

"You asked me if I heard _them_ too. What'd you mean?"

"Ah." He sucked in a deep breath, as if he wasn't sure how to begin; wordlessly, Gilbert held out the bottle, and was somewhat taken aback by how ferociously Constantin grabbed onto it. As he took a long, deep swig of the alcohol, Gilbert found himself staring at the curve of his throat, the sharp angles of his jaw.

Finally, he lowered the bottle and wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. "The ghosts."

A cruel laugh was ripped from him, and immediately he scolded himself for making that loud of a noise. "If there're ghosts here, Constantin, I'd have seen them by now."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I." Gilbert held out his hand for the beer and brought it to his lips. "I ever tell you about the ghosts I've seen?"

He was sure Constantin had heard the story before, considering the gossip that tended to get around Europe - but there was no harm in telling it again. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Crazy fuckers from my past, come down from nation-heaven to tell me to dig up my brother's body. Left me a note and everything. Real spooky shit."

Constantin hummed, his ruby eyes bright with consideration. "Visions and ghosts are not the same, my friend."

"Still," he growled, "to this day I feel a little haunted."

He parted his lips to respond, then hesitated, then sighed. "They are real, you know, East Germany. My ghosts are as real as yours."

Gilbert felt bile rise in his throat. "Prussia is fine. Or Gilbert. Or even 'warmongering bastard', if you want."

A laugh bubbled in Constantin's chest, teasing but not unkind. "You are a strange nation, my dear. Not many of our kind would consider that a compliment, I'm sure." He leaned back against the wall. "But these ghosts...they speak to me, and I hear them."

His ears warm from not only the alcohol, Gilbert huffed. "And what do they say?"

"It depends. Mostly I can't make it out, but by their tone...it changes. Sometimes they're benevolent and gentle, talking to me like I am a child; other times they are urgent, as if they are trying to send me an important message." His arm shot forward to nudge Gilbert's leg. "Maybe I will need to raise Moldova from the dead, eh?"

"Pray that you don't."

Constantin paused for a moment. Gilbert reckoned at first that it was, perhaps, for theatrical effect, but then his face crumpled into an expression of genuine bewilderment. "When I can make it out, they speak of fire. Fire, and walls, and cold eyes." He shook his head. "I want to believe it's nothing, and yet somehow I cannot."

The everlasting chill that abided within the walls of Ivan's mansion seemed to get to Constantin, and he shivered violently. Gilbert set the bottle down and reached for his hand in an effort to reassure him. Constantin smiled, grateful for the contact, and ran his thumb over his knuckles.

"Have you seen ghosts before you came here?" asked Gilbert, his voice gruff with unease.

"Sometimes, but not these ones, and not as intense." As if it would calm him further, he gripped his hand tighter. "I don't know who they are, if they're nation or human or anything else. They're unfamiliar, I can't make head nor tail of it."

In a rush of bravery, Gilbert brought the hand upwards and pressed his lips against it. "Forget about it, then. No need to talk about something that makes you upset."

Constantin sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the nook. "There's no use in trying to forget something that won't go away."

He couldn't resist the urge to follow him. Before Constantin could stand, Gilbert pressed his cheek against his shoulder and grabbed for his hand even more fiercely than he had been.

"Maybe I can help you ignore them for a little bit, then, handsome."

Constantin shifted his head so his cheek brushed his hair, and Gilbert felt his smile. "I never took you for a flatterer."

"I'm not."

"You are," he tossed back, leaning further into him, "but maybe I'll be able to humor you just for tonight."


	16. complications (italy/prussia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Italy and Prussia at the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pruita is unrequited on prussia's part, but italy tends to feel extremely guilty about not feeling the same way. that's why he acts odd haha

Perhaps Gilbert was not as close to Feliciano as he wanted to be, but over the years he thought he'd gotten pretty accurate at reading his emotions.

The ballroom was stuffy and warm - no place for a militant nation like Gilbert, and no place for a bundle of nerves like Feliciano. Even from across the room, he could see the champagne flute quivering in his grasp. His eyes fluttered back and forth, unsure of who he was supposed to or even _allowed_ to talk to.

Suddenly, their gazes met, and Gilbert took that as his cue.

Before he lost his chance, he smiled and made a beeline for him, trying his best to weave between the other meddling guests. Feliciano returned the grin, pleased to socialize with a man he actually knew.

He lifted his arm for a handshake, but Gilbert grabbed his hand and brought it up further for a kiss. "Having a good time?"

Feliciano's laughter was bright and sharp like bells, and it went right to his heart.

"I suppose you could say that," he teased, raising his glass ever so slightly.

"How about we get out of here, just you and I? There's a park, just across the street, we'll go and have ourselves a break and no one will be any the wiser."

Feliciano rolled his eyes, but the tension immediately melted from his shoulders, and Gilbert swore he picked up on a sigh of relief. He bolted the rest of his champagne, almost impolitely, and handed the empty glass to a servant who was standing nearby.

"Sure, why not?" He punched Gilbert's shoulder. "But no funny business."

"What, from me? Never!" He slid a gloved hand into his pocket, fished out a couple of silver coins, and placed them on the servant's tray. "If Monsieur Bonnefoy asks, you don't know where we've gone."

The servant nodded, and the two of them slipped away unnoticed.

* * *

Gilbert was grateful for the chilly night. With every step along the beaten pathway, with every breath of frigid air, he could feel the pretentious congestion of the ballroom melting off him in waves. Even flighty Feliciano seemed to be at peace, as he had begun to hum an old folk song. A rogue leaf drifted down from the trees to land in his curls, and Gilbert chivalrously brushed it away.

"So, how are things in your neck of the woods?"

His companion ceased his humming. "Oh, well. They're alright. You know how it is - one way today, and another way tomorrow."

Amused by the vague answer, Gilbert grinned. "Sure. But I understand if you want to talk about something else."

Feliciano opened his mouth to respond, but the breeze picked up and left him shivering. He wrapped his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to generate some warmth, but it was to no avail.

"This damn weather," he cursed. "It's April. You'd think it'd be just a little warmer."

It had been a long while since the cold nights had bothered Gilbert. If anything, they reminded him of the time he spent wild, sheltering in the woods, with no one to tell him what balls he had to attend or who to fight.

With a sigh, he began to shrug off his overcoat. "Here, why don't you take this?"

"Gilbert, no." It was an order, not a suggestion, and in a tone of voice Feliciano hardly ever used. There was no soft blush on his cheeks, no bashful laugh; rather, his brows creased uneasily, and he held out an arm to keep him at bay.

"But you're cold," Gilbert insisted. "Here, take it. No strings attached, don't worry about it."

Feliciano hesitated for a moment longer, then reached out and carefully accepted the overcoat. The medals clanked against the ones on his own uniform, and Gilbert thought he would have almost looked ridiculous if he were not so handsome.

"I know I was never your first choice."

Feliciano whipped his head up, his gaze watery. "Please, please don't start."

"I just want to let you know that..." His throat closed up with emotion and he had to look away. "I want you to know that the offer is still there. If you want. If you're ever lonely."

Feliciano continued to stare up at him, his tawny eyes reflecting the moonlight like gold disks and his curls blown messy by the wind.

"If you ever find yourself without an ally. If you need someone to run to, I can be there."

"You can't make promises like that." It was almost a whisper, but then his tone hardened. "And I don't need anyone to _run_ to. I can take care of myself."

Briefly, Gilbert was offended, but he swallowed it down upon realizing he had no reason to be. Instead he nodded and attempted a cheeky grin.

"I know. Trust me, I do," he murmured. "I'd fight alongside you again if I had to, without a second thought. But the offer still stands, because you're a good friend to me."

The breath was almost knocked out of Gilbert as he felt a gentle hand grasp his arm; then Feliciano's lips were against his cheek, and it was all he could do to not grab him and kiss him senseless.

"You're wonderful," he said softly. "Thank you."

"It's no problem." He felt like his heart was glowing, as warm and inviting as a hearth, and it took a real effort to step away.

"Wait, Prussia."

He did.

Feliciano took a brief second to clear his throat and run his fingers through his hair. "If you, um...if you want to maybe, uh, kiss me, you can. Just once. Just as a way of me saying thank you."

Gilbert padded forward, a disbelieving expression painted across his face. "Really?"

Feliciano nodded and closed his eyes. "Yes."

For what seemed like eternity, he watched him. He took notice of the freckles dotting his cheeks, his long eyelashes, the auburn whorls of his hair. He had tilted his head back, as if preparing for what Gilbert had wanted to do for decades now.

His heart in his throat, he settled one hand on his shoulder and used the other to cup Feliciano's cheek. The other man sucked in a breath but did not move, and Gilbert leaned down -

\- and at the last moment, brought his lips to his ear instead.

"I couldn't do it," he whispered.

Feliciano's eyes shot open. "What?"

"Because you don't want it." His voice was gravelly and tight, and he was sure he was trembling, but he was certain. "And if you don't want it, neither do I."

"That's..." Feliciano shook his head and his lips curved into a soft smile. "That's very honorable of you."

There was nothing else Gilbert could say. "I should be getting back."

"Of course."

Patting his cheek, he added, "Keep the coat for now."

With that, he turned on his heels and left Feliciano standing, Prussian overcoat and golden eyes and all, in the silver droplets of moonlight.


	17. untitled #3 (england/france)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, weary and exhausted in his own right, tries his best to help Francis calm down enough to sleep.
> 
> Prompt was "It's okay, I couldn't sleep anyway" with these two.

It was late, but Francis didn’t want to think about that.

Grappling with the rampant thoughts that always came with sleepy nights, he would not have noticed Arthur had made his way into the bedroom if it weren’t for the cautious clicking of his shoes on the hard floor. Francis curled further in on himself under the covers, wondering briefly if he should feign sleep.

Before he could decide, the mattress shifted with Arthur’s weight. He listened as he leaned over to flick on the light; then he removed his footwear, the effort causing him to draw in a deep, sharp breath.

The sigh of pain, no matter how insignificant, was enough to draw Francis out from beneath the blankets.

“Shit,” Arthur grumbled, looking slightly panicked. “Shh, it’s only me.”

Drowsily, Francis reached out and found his left hand, running his thumb over the steel ring that lay there. He was too far away to bring the hand up for a kiss, so he tugged on it, urging his husband to lie back. Still clad in his work clothes - tie, white dress shirt, black pants and all - Arthur relented.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

Francis shifted his head so that their noses were just touching. “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Arthur made a small noise of consideration before he turned away in favor of settling more comfortably on his back. “Any particular reason for that, then?”

“Is the immortality curse itself not a valid reason, my love?” 

His partner chuckled, a genuine one that sent vibrations rumbling through the length of his body. “That’s very fair.”

They sat in silence for several moments, not touching but still able to revel in the other’s warmth. Already, with the presence of someone beside him, Francis could feel his eyelids begin to droop. In a motion that Arthur would never dare to do in the light of day, he rolled back onto his side and began to gently card his fingers through his husband’s hair.

Then he spoke again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You being here helps me enough, dear,” teased Francis, but his quip was punctuated with a wince as Arthur’s fingers caught on a tangle. “Easy, now.”

He murmured an apology, then drew his thumb lovingly over the edge of his jaw. “I have an idea. Wait here a moment.”

With a grunt, he hauled himself out of bed and disappeared into the hallway. Francis distantly noticed the bathroom light blinking on, and he reminded himself to scold Arthur for wasting electricity.

He threw himself onto his other side, trying to nestle himself into the blankets to compensate for the absence of Arthur. What a strange man his beloved was, so prickly and short-tempered some moments, but as comforting and protective as the sun itself at others. A bastard he was, tried and true, but in the lull of the modern day, he had mellowed - and Francis loved him for it. The world might never be as it was, now that the pen was revered over the sword, spoken word over fist, and thus Arthur might never be as _he_ once was.

That was just as well, Francis thought. 

When Arthur returned, he had changed into more suitable clothing and was carrying something small and gold in his hands. Francis didn’t get the chance to ask what it was before he recognized it as an old hairbrush of his.

“Sit up for me?” Arthur requested, his voice sickly sweet.

“Depends on what you are planning to do with that brush.”

He rolled his eyes, that brisk personality of his shining through for the shortest moment. “I’m going to shave you with it, what on Earth do you _think_ I’m going to do? I want to brush your hair, to help you, considering you can’t be bothered to do so yourself.”

Francis snickered, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. “And this is the great British charm I hear so much about?”

“Allegedly.”

Fingers swept his hair behind his shoulders and brushed against the tender skin of his neck, irritating a scar from times long passed. Francis shivered, unsure if the sensation was pleasant or not, but too overwhelming to bear it anyhow.

“Careful,” came the stern reminder, and Arthur nodded.

“Of course.”

As his husband began his work, smoothing out the rustled hair with long strokes, Francis let his eyes slide shut. He allowed himself to fall into the touch, to bask in the sheer domesticity of the scene. To let another nation - never mind one so infamous for his cunning nature, his frenzied and almost wild temperament - so close to his throat was a sign of trust that he could not ignore, no matter what the rings on their fingers symbolized.

For a moment, he began to fantasize. He was no longer _that,_ some poor, cruel creature caught between the inability to die and to truly live, a disgraced spirit with no hope of being seen as something divine. Instead, he was a young girl being dolled up before her first day of school; he was a father preparing to see his daughter wed; he was an old man, being cared for by his loving family since he was too frail to do so himself. The thoughts caused a ball of grief to settle in his chest, and he felt like he would be choked by it.

“There,” Arthur rumbled, his tone gravelly with concentration. He placed the hairbrush on the nightstand to punctuate his words. “All done.”

The words snapped Francis out of his reverie, and as he turned to meet his eyes, the sadness that was so overpowering only a second ago had fizzled into nothing. As if he was admiring his work, Arthur returned a hand to those locks of his, more as a show of affection than anything else.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep a little easier now?”

“Now that you’re here with me,” he whispered, “I think I’ll fare alright.”

Arthur was never one to smile or laugh too boldly, but there was the ghost of a smirk on his lips. The hand shifted to his shoulder and he shuffled forward so that his forehead rested steadily against Francis’s own.

“See? You could not survive without me.”

Feeling incredibly content, he accepted the jest with an amused huff.

“Oh, my darling. Even if I could, I am not sure I would want to.”


	18. trying again (russia/america)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While at Alfred's turn-of-the-century party, he and Ivan decide to start anew.
> 
> Prompt was "it's like we've become strangers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blegh i don't like this one. it's hardly shippy enough to warrant using the ship tag but what can you do.

The winter night sent a chill straight to Alfred's bones, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone took notice of his absence.

Their party was in full swing, and true to the courteous host that he was, Alfred had made his rounds. He had welcomed, charmed, fed, and conversed with his guests, and had enjoyed each and every moment of it. As was to be expected, the mood veered dramatically once the effects of alcohol had set in.

Feliciano had wasted no time dragging poor Ludwig into a dance that was amusing at best and flat-out embarrassing at worst. Arthur and Francis had begun sending distant, melancholic, yearning looks at one another from across the house. Even his own brother had betrayed him for the comfort of the Netherlands, and was currently sat with his legs stretched out across Andries's lap.

By _God,_ did he need a break from it. Now he was sprawled across the hood of his car, the finest that money could buy, of course, as a gift from his government.

He recognized Ivan's presence almost instantly, before he registered that he was hearing footsteps in the snow. Decades of paranoia had trained him to keep alert, but now there was no fear - only discomfort. It was odd, didn't feel right, made his stomach twist into knots and urged him to drive to where nobody could follow.

"What do you want with me?" was the question that slipped from his lips before he realized it did.

"Nothing," replied Ivan, his voice gravelly like it was about to get stuck in his throat. "But I think...some of the others are starting to wonder where you've gotten to."

"It's not their business."

Ivan blinked at him. "It is. This is your house."

Alfred sneered, curling his lip in contempt. "They don't need me. They've got each other, even Canada."

"Running from it will not make you feel better."

That sounded like it might have been a jibe, so Alfred turned on him, his eyes blazing.

"I'm not running! You know all I've ever _done_ is run? Run from you, run from all the folk you had under your belt. Run from my father, and from my brother, and from Germany and...everyone. And for what? A nice car, and an empty sky." He turned his head to the stars as if to emphasize his words. "And I'm fucking done with it. I'm not running from you no more. I'm just tired, and I needed some time to myself, so leave me alone."

They sat in silence after that, and Alfred wondered just how unfair his outburst was. Besides the night breeze and the distant clamor of the party, the only sound to be heard was that of Ivan's breathing. It was deep but ragged, as if it hurt to fill his lungs but he had learned to cope with it.

He felt his presence more strongly, and when he looked once more at him, he realized that he was sitting on the other side of the hood, tense as if he thought he was going to be scolded.

Then Ivan shifted. "Not empty," he rumbled.

"Hm?"

"The sky, it isn't empty. Not now. You of all nations should recognize that."

"No," he said with a dry, sad chuckle. "Maybe not empty."

Ivan hesitantly eased himself back onto the windshield so he matched Alfred's casual lounge. With a grimace, he adjusted so that his weight was evenly distributed against the pane and folded his fingers across his stomach.

"Those...how did you call them? The 'folk I had under my belt.'"

Alfred hummed. "What about them?"

"I do not think they are going to forgive me."

"I wouldn't think so. Lithuania, probably not. Prussia, definitely not." _Nor should they,_ he added silently.

"East Germany," corrected Ivan.

"No," Alfred shot back. "He's Prussia to me."

His companion nodded solemnly and must have decided that was that, because he said nothing more about it.

"This whole past century has been a mistake."

"You are not free of fault, American." His voice carried more emotion now, unreadable though it was, as he fell into a rather laughable impression of Poland. _"'If I've gotten this far only to be obliterated by a child with a nuclear arsenal at his fingertips then God has a cruel sense of humor.'"_

Alfred shoved his shoulder playfully. "He could have been talking about you!"

Ivan didn't laugh, but he smiled brightly and genuinely, more than Alfred had ever seen him. For the first time in a long while, he noticed that he was radiating body heat, rather than the chilly air he often did.

"It's like we've become strangers," Ivan murmured, so quiet and sheepish that the words almost went unheard.

"Sure," said Alfred. "Even then, we never even really knew each other, have we?"

"We should..." Ivan trailed off, as if he was tasting the words. "Start over."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

Part of him wanted to refuse, wanted to hold onto the vitriol, because at the end of the day Ivan had hurt his loved ones and he had done the same. Then the image of Francis and Arthur from before crossed his mind again, and he remembered how they had looked at one another with such tenderness that it almost hurt to witness. If they could be like that after so many years...

He faced Ivan and held out his hand.

"Alfred Francis Jones," he announced with a nod. "I guess we will see whether or not it is a pleasure."

Ivan grinned again and accepted the handshake, ashen curls falling into his face and his eyes reflecting the stars.


	19. a father's riches (england, canada)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the night, young Canada raises an uncomfortable question.
> 
> Prompt was "how did you get this scar?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nations aren't always 100% loyal to what they must be loyal to, and you cannot convince me that arthur's heart didn't break whenever he looked at little alfred or matthew, because they reminded him of what could have been.

Arthur could tell Matthew had slipped into bed beside him before his ears and eyes told him so. He wanted to blame it on his nationhood, to remind himself that they all shared that sort of sense, but deep down he knew it to be the sense of a father.

"Are you awake?"

The words were spoken so softly that he wouldn't have registered them had he not already known Matthew was there. Groggily, he opened his eyes and tried to collect himself enough to speak.

"What do you need, sweetheart?"

"How did you get this scar?" he wondered aloud, curiously touching his stubby fingers to the raised tissue on Arthur's shoulder.

The sensation along with the realization of _which_ scar Matthew was talking about nearly made him jump out of his skin. He pulled on the fabric of the shirt so that it covered the mark and rolled his shoulders as if he had completely forgotten it was ever there.

"I don't remember, poppet. Please, just go to sleep."

"Was it from Portugal?"

The child's question shocked Arthur so suddenly that he almost laughed. "No. Portugal is a dear friend of mine."

"Oh." He fell silent for a heartbeat, then Arthur heard him take a deep breath. "What about the Ottoman Empire?"

"Why, that's a ferocious opponent!" he huffed. "Where do you learn these things?"

"Books, mostly."

That brought a smile to his face. Resemble Francis though he might, Arthur saw bits and pieces of himself in every little thing Matthew did - his willingness to learn, his quiet demeanor, and, yes, his stubbornness. If Alfred inherited Arthur's fire, all the brash words and bold movements of war, then Matthew inherited the calm, comforting air he held during peacetime.

"Arthur?"

He bit back a snappish remark, praying that the boy would have been satisfied without a reply and drifted off to sleep. "Yes, my sweet?"

"Is it from my papa?"

The world stilled as Arthur sucked in a ragged breath and stared unblinkingly into the darkness. The hush was stifling, so he rolled over to face him, wanting nothing more than for him to forget about all the questions he had raised.

"I'm your papa, darling," he crooned, his throat tight as he ran his fingers through the hair that was so like Francis's. "Now sleep."

Matthew shook his head insistently. "My other papa."

The matter-of-factness of his words clawed at his heart like a cornered fox. He often wondered what Matthew thought about his old guardian, but never dared to ask out of fear that he'd get an answer he'd be unable to handle.

Vivid memories of distant wars surfaced, struggles between himself and Francis, trading blow for blow, because they were nations and that is what nations did.

Before he could repress them back to where they belonged, softer, more recent memories revealed themselves alongside the brutal ones. Limbs tangled in the blankets, lips pressing against old scars, willing that the world would vanish and they'd be left alone with each other.

"Needn't you worry about where I get my old scars from," he whispered. "It'll just make you upset."

"So I'm right?" Matthew was gazing up at him with wide eyes now, seemingly aware that he was getting closer to his answer.

"If I tell you," said Arthur, "will you let me go to bed?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically, and Arthur had to try to ignore the color of his eyes: a perfect blend of green and blue.

"Then yes. Your papa gave this one to me."

Matthew didn't show any sign that he was surprised, but he curled in on himself, tugging his knees to his chest.

"Might I add that this was centuries ago," he blurted out in a pathetic attempt at backpedaling. "It might as well not be there anymore. I'd forgotten about it until now. It doesn't hurt."

"But you hate each other," he whimpered. "You're going to go to war again and you'll end up with even more scars."

Arthur let out an exasperated laugh, though none of it was humorous. "Where do you get these silly ideas in your head?"

"They aren't silly! You tell me all the time." Matthew had tears in his eyes, and his bottom lip was beginning to tremble. "'That's just the way the world is.' But I miss him, and I don't want him to hurt you like that again."

"He hasn't hurt me like that in a long while. Everything is going to be just fine, I promise."

"But I _miss_ him!"

There wasn't anything Arthur could say to that, not a single damn thing. Instead, he patted his shoulder and kissed the top of his curly head, knowing that wouldn't do much to ease his worries.

"I miss him too, love."

Matthew made a thoughtful little noise, too thoughtful for his age. Then he yawned, settling his head down on the pillow.

"Why can't you change it? Then we could all live together."

Arthur considered his words and admired his youthful innocence for a minute, but when he turned to look at him, he had already closed his eyes.

"I cannot change the world, Canada," he said sympathetically, pouring as much of his love into the sentence as he could. "I cannot change the world."


End file.
